Orphan of Destiny
Page 9
I must have dozed, for when I lifted my head, it was dark and the evening woods awakened as the night birds sang. It was getting colder, but the wind and weather did not concern me. The breeze picked up, and the trees swayed as their limbs creaked and knocked against each other.
I peered up at the sky, wanting to curse God for allowing this to happen. I had lost everything. The monks. Sir Thomas. Quincy and Sir Basil. My heart leapt at the thought of Celia. What if Sir Hugh had done the same to her? Let Sir Hugh find me, I thought, for when he did, I would strangle him with my bare hands.
Some instinct brought me back to the present moment—I don’t know whether it was the long months of battle or merely an inborn desire for survival, but I sensed movement in the underbrush behind me. Someone or something was attempting a stealthy approach. The evening stars were rising in the sky and there was a dim light to the forest. I listened hard. If my friends had come to retrieve me, I would run away again. I wished only to be left alone.
Another rustle in the bushes convinced me it was no animal. Whoever was there was big, and thus it could not be Maryam or Robard, both of whom would likely be upon me before I even knew either of them was there. It must be Little John, come to find me.
“Who’s there?” I demanded. No answer. “Go away!”
There was silence for a moment, but then came the shuffle of footsteps, creeping as quietly as they were able, along the forest floor.
“Leave me alone!” I shouted. My words echoed off the trees, and startled ravens and starlings cried out as they burst into flight.
The woods were stilled momentarily, and the sound resumed. With a heavy sigh I stood up, drawing my sword as I did so.
“Don’t come any closer!” I commanded.
Pushing myself out from the tree trunk, I turned to face whoever it was who dared disturb me. “I warned—” I stopped, the words dying in my throat.
For there before me, his gentle face outlined in the starlight, arms open wide, stood someone I knew in an instant. I threw my sword to the ground, staggering forward.
And I fainted dead away into the arms of Brother Tuck.
14
I woke to the hum of voices and, opening my eyes, found myself next to a crackling fire. My dreams haunted me, and for a moment I wondered if I still slept. I hoped so. Then all I had learned this day would be part of a horrible, horrible nightmare.
Maryam said, “There you are,” and I felt a large warm hand on my forehead, gazing up to see the smiling face of Brother Tuck. It was not a dream. He was really here.
I stood up and so did he, clapping his hands with glee. From the time I was a child, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an expression of happiness cross his face. His giant hands cradled my head, and he pushed the hair out of my eyes, looking at me like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“It’s so good to see you,” I said. He couldn’t hear me, as he was deaf as well as mute, but I touched my heart and pointed at him. Through the years Tuck and I had found our own way of communicating with each other. Using simple signs and motions, I could make him understand what I needed, wanted or sometimes even wished. The abbot once told me Tuck was a genius at “understanding people.” Because he could not hear or speak, he had learned to watch our eyes and faces. Even by the way we stood or gestured he could on some level understand what we required of him. Since Tuck had practically raised me, we had our own method of wordless communication, and it surprised me how easily I fell back into it. My heart was overjoyed at finding him alive.
“Everyone, this is Brother Tuck, the monk most responsible for raising me. In fact, it was he who found me on the abbey steps when I was left there as a babe. He is one of the kindest, most decent men I’ve ever known.”
All of them stood and shook hands with Brother Tuck. He watched me carefully as I pointed to each of them and touched my chest near my heart. This told him these three were my friends, and it was all he needed. He would never learn or speak their names, but I had just vouched for them in Tuck’s eyes, and that was good enough for him.
Finding St. Alban’s in ruins and then discovering Tuck alive had been an enormous shock. Standing by the fire, it took me a moment to get my bearings. We were camped in the woods near the abbey. The campsite was littered with flame-scarred benches, jars, tools and crocks of Tuck’s potions and numerous other objects he must have scavenged from the wreckage of St. Alban’s.
“Your monk, he cannot speak?” Robard asked. “This is Tuck? The one you’ve told us stories of?”
I nodded. “Yes, he is deaf and dumb. But he understands things. I guess over the years we developed our own way of ‘talking.’ I can’t explain it. When I was growing up, he was always able to figure out whatever it was I required.”
“He carried you back to us,” Little John said quietly. The thought of it made me smile for just an instant; to know Tuck was still alive and taking care of me helped lessen my grief. “Then he brought us here. He must have been living in the woods since . . .” He didn’t finish his thought. “The poor soul. He probably had no idea what else to do.”
“I wish he could tell us what happened,” I said. A small portion of a charred bench from the abbey lay not far away. I held it out to Tuck, pointing at the burn marks along the side. “What happened, Tuck? Who did this? Who burned St. Alban’s?” I hadn’t believed Sir Hugh back in Tyre, but now I knew in my mind and heart that he was responsible. If only Tuck could confirm it.
Moving past me, he went to a fallen log that lay just outside the circle of the fire. The log’s end was hollow, and from inside it he removed a square metal box, eagerly handing it to me. Removing the lid, I discovered two pieces of parchment inside, one of them wrapped with a small ribbon.
I unwound the ribbon and, kneeling by the fire, found the page covered in the abbot’s neat, precise handwriting. The sight of it, so familiar, made me choke back tears.
Dear Tristan,
Praise our heavenly Father. I have made Brother Tuck understand he should give this box to you and you alone. I have prayed to God you will return here someday, and if you are reading this, it must mean he has once again answered my prayers. As when you landed upon our steps those many years ago, Tuck is another miracle God has sent to us. Our abbey has been blessed by both of you. God is truly great in his generosity in bringing two such fine men to our home.
If you are reading this letter, however, I am no longer alive. With prayer and the grace of God, I have lived long enough to leave you my last words.
But first, I beg you as a good Christian to promise you will not seek revenge on those who have done us this terrible harm. The Bible commands us to forgive them and pray for them. These are words we have lived our life by: compassion and forgiveness. And we must not abandon them now. Vengeance belongs to the Lord our Father, not mortal man. And seeking the same would only poison your heart and soul. Promise me this, as my last dying wish.
What you hold in your hands will tell you much but not everything. Not long after you left with Sir Thomas and the Templars, men came here in the night. They questioned us brutally. But they learned nothing. We protected you as a babe and we protect you unto death. Sir Thomas will decide when you must learn the answers you seek.
It is God’s blessing Tuck was not here when the King’s Guards came for us. When we refused to answer their questions, God forgive them but they locked us inside and set fire to the abbey. They guarded the doors and windows so we could not escape. May God have mercy on their souls. Somehow I survived my injuries long enough for Tuck to find me. He has treated me with his potions and herbs, but God tells me my time is near.
I do not know why you have returned to St. Alban’s, but I promise you, your secret dies with me. It is for your own safety.
Hold the memory of your brothers here in your heart. Mourn for them, but do not despair, for they now reside with our Father in
Heaven. You need only live on. Follow your heart and be kind and true to what we have taught yo
u, Tristan, and their deaths will not have been in vain.
Go in peace.
Abbot Geoffrey Reneau.
St. Alban’s. March 1191.
Along with the abbot’s letter were two other pieces of parchment. The first was a proclamation:
By Royal Order of Her Majesty the Queen
REWARD
The Queen seeks the whereabouts of a male child.
Likely left at a nunnery or monastery or with a peasant family.
Crosslets 500 for information leading to his whereabouts.
Crosslets 1,000 if the child is delivered alive to Gloucester Castle.
Do not attempt deception. It will be dealt with in
the most severe manner.
Royal seal affixed this date, 1174,
August High Counsel to Her Majesty the Queen,
Eleanor of Aquitaine,
Hugh St. Montfort
In the flickering firelight I read the final sheet. It was brief, only a few lines. But affixed to the top of the page was the royal seal of Henry II. It read:
Father Geoffrey;
I pray the boy is now safe. Watch over him. I trust you to determine when he is ready to know the truth. When you feel the time is right, send him to me, but his safety must be paramount.
I will send travelers to the abbey now and then to keep watch. You won’t know who they are and neither will he.
Your service in this matter will not go unrewarded.
With my sincerest thanks,
Henry II,
Sovereign of England
The handwriting on the last sheet was instantly familiar to me. Inside my satchel I kept the note that had been left with me on the steps of St. Alban’s. With shaking hands, I unwrapped the oilskin I’d kept it in for these long months. I placed it next to the note signed by Henry II, the Lionheart’s father and once the King of England.
They were identical.
15
What do the papers say?” Robard asked. “They say . . .” But I couldn’t finish. Staggering to the fire, I sat down on one of the benches Brother Tuck had plucked from the ashes of the abbey.
“Tristan.” Maryam left her seat, kneeling in front of me. “Tristan, I am your friend and would gladly give everything I have not to see you in such pain. But we are here with you and there is nothing you can tell us, nothing written on any piece of paper, that would change anything. We are with you, now and always.”
“Maryam . . . it says . . . It’s from the abbot. A letter . . . There is a note here from King Henry. . . .” I could barely speak. What I’d wished to learn my entire life was tantalizingly close. The abbot knew. I wasn’t an orphan. He knew all along. He and Sir Thomas were in this together. Had Sir Thomas deceived me? Was making me his squire part of a larger plot?
As he had done ever since I could remember, Brother Tuck rushed to my side to brush the tears away. But they would not stop, and his face grew concerned. According to the abbot’s letter it was only because of luck that Tuck had not been here when the King’s Guards arrived, but he had still witnessed something horrible happen to his home. And though he might never fully understand the details, he recognized the source of my grief.
Handing the parchments to Maryam, I buried my head in my hands, more confused than ever. The abbot and the brothers had died keeping my secret from Sir Hugh. Sir Thomas was meant to explain everything to me when the “time was right,” but no one could have expected Sir Thomas to die fighting in Acre. Now I had nothing.
“Oh,” Maryam exclaimed as she read the pages. She looked at me with eyes wide. “Tristan, this letter from King Henry, the handwriting . . . Did you notice?”
“Notice what? What!?” Robard said impatiently.
“The note Tristan has carried forever, the one left with him here . . . when he was orphaned—it was written by King Henry,” she said.
Little John let out a low whistle. “Tristan, lad . . . what does this mean?” he asked.
“Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. Just because King Henry may have written some note, that doesn’t mean anything,” I said. My head was fuzzy and full of mush. From where she was lying on the ground by the fire, Angel padded over and sniffed at my face, licking my cheek before she curled up into a ball at my side.
“Tristan,” Maryam said, “could it be that . . . You said Eleanor believed you were born of a noble. Could it be your King Henry is . . . was . . . ?” She stumbled over the words, her faced knitted in deep thought. “This makes it sound like he was your father!” Little John and Robard gasped.
“I thought you . . . ,” Little John said slowly. Then he waved his hand in the air, as if pushing the words away.
My mind was too full to consider it. These letters explained a great deal. In his mind, the abbot had deceived me for my own safety. But he would not have made up such a tale. Though stern, he was not a cruel man. He would not have told an elaborate lie to me about my parenthood. If I accepted these documents as the truth, it forced me to confront matters I had no energy to deal with. No, it was better for me to go on as I always had. Not knowing who I was.
Maryam came quickly toward me, grasping me by the elbow. I wanted to yank my arm free but she held it too strongly. “Sir Hugh and Eleanor were searching for you . . . when you were first born. . . . This must mean—”
Shrugging my bedroll off my shoulders, I stalked away from the firelight. The loss I felt was too much to bear. Everyone from my childhood was dead. There was no home left for me. And now a massive weight crushed me. I had just been told the one thing I had wanted to know my entire life, and I wished I could take it back. If I’d never met Sir Thomas, none of these horrible things would have happened. They had died because of me. Because someone believed I was a person I couldn’t possibly be.
I paced about the camp for several minutes, stalking back and forth. Tuck studied me with a worried expression, but the others said nothing. When I had tired myself out, I lay again by the fire. I made a sleeping motion with my hands, and Tuck smiled and readied his own spot by the fire. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear Robard and the others talking in low tones. Tuck came and sat cross-legged on the ground next to me, resting his hand on my shoulder. He had lost as much as I had, if not more, and I knew I should offer him comfort. My heart nearly cleaved in two at the thought of poor Tuck returning to the abbey to find it either in flames or ashes. In between caring for the abbot he must have dug each grave and prayed for the departed souls of his brothers. I was certain it was he who had marked each cross with a memento. I could not bear the thought of it, that my own foolish existence had brought death and destruction down upon his home.
I drifted into a fitful sleep and woke up more than once calling out for the abbot and Sir Thomas. Several times I opened my eyes to find Maryam or Tuck kneeling beside me, gently attempting to soothe me from my nightmares. When I finally woke before sunup the next morning, my wound still ached, and my head felt like it was full of sheared wool. My mind was empty and reluctant to think anymore. Tuck was squatting by the fire, stirring something in a large pot that smelled delicious. Though I was groggy and disoriented, my mouth watered. I needed to use the tree for enough support to rise, and I couldn’t rid myself of the aches and stiffness ravaging my body. As I took a step toward the fire, pain radiated from the wound in my side, and down my leg. I winced and dropped to one knee.
Tuck was there in a heartbeat. He pushed the hair back from my eyes, feeling my face for heat. He pulled my hand away from where it clasped my side, and we were both shocked to find blood on my hand. His eyes widened and he hurried away, returning in a short time with a small crock full of one of his potions.
I never knew what Tuck put in his peculiar mixtures. But I was not worried as he cut away my shirt, clearing space around the wound. He had studied all the plants and wildlife of the forest, and experimented with dozens of different concoctions for healing and soothing. From the jar he applied a greenish, rather foul-smelling paste to my injury.
Whatever Tuck had given me, it made my eyes burn and water, and I prayed for relief. For a moment, I wondered if he’d somehow inserted a large wasp inside the wound. The paste felt as if it were burning through my flesh.
“It’s nothing.” I grimaced. “Just one of Tuck’s salves. But, oh, it burns!”
Maryam returned her daggers to their sheaths and harrumphed at me. “Don’t whine. Being shot by a longbow hurts much worse.”
“No it doesn’t,” I said.
Slowly the pain from Tuck’s concoction receded, and the bleeding stopped. But my mood did not improve. As everyone finished their breakfast, I sat apart, stewing in my own grief and feeling disconnected from the world around me.
Several times Maryam or one of the others tried to draw me into conversation, but I would snap at them and turn away. Even in my funk, I watched Maryam and Robard share a wooden plate of food. As we had traveled these past few weeks, whenever we built a fire, they would sit next to each other. Whatever food we’d managed to hunt or find, Robard would always wait until Maryam had eaten her fill, no matter how hungry he was. After we had escaped Montségur and traveled through France for many weeks, Robard had done all of the hunting and most of the cooking. We would have starved if not for him. He delighted in cooking whatever game he found and serving it to Maryam. And I could tell she appreciated it. Most of the time their growing closeness made me happy. Today it only annoyed me.